science poetry – ◬ɼ† ₪ ₱ʘʓʇɹʎ

i had just read a brief history of time. remember that night? cosmic vertigo took hold of my insides, i quit cigarettes that instant, i crushed my last pack and i declared, to you, that death takes everything.
stephen hawking explained: the universe will have an end just as it has a beginning. so having no more time to waste i told you i loved your face more than any other faces and if there was to be even the tiniest trace of me left behind i wanted it to be the way i felt for you that night.

you blew smoke rings from stitched lips, and i talked in circles around you. bleary and bloodshot our eyes closed. you maybe never read stephen hawking but i know we both ran like bandits from sleep.

earthy smell of marijuana permeated your beard and seasoned our tongues. *omitted, wasn’t it really something? being young and together the way we were. smoke stacked to the ceiling and the lamp glow casted halogen haloes around our heads. don’t you agree how.

ii.

*darling, i love you so desperately, when i gaze upon your full moon face i feel the spread of my pupils pulling wide, letting in too much of your angelic light. i embrace the pressure of your body’s presence compressing the very fabric of my marrow as you contort me to your will.

though i don’t dare profess that your tender love, the love only i know, the love that when lost inspired so many insipid diary notes, has ever mended a single bone, yet somehow with one kiss, your touch heals my entire soul; fills the emptiness that swells my chest as if my heart had never broke.

though my brain wanders like tidal waves towards you and my limbs crash like the branches of trees, as today my fingers grasp the empty, missing your touch like the winter misses spring leaves. i know, we were a season, and there is a whole life left ahead for us to live alone.

still the movements of time and her changing seasons, this bitter wisdom that has come from age and grace, nor these emotions that crash like waves cannot keep me from reminiscing so sweetly how we spent entire days and nights: undressed, wearing only bedspreads, spread across one another; how the always sun came up too soon…

*darling, i want more time with you.
.

.
*six pm

∞

⨀

for fifty days i fasted,

knowing no-thing,

save the retching of my own flesh,

save the pit of my own stomach.

for your arrival safely we sold

our cattle, fashioned a festival

our first kiss –a first sip of wine

on the day break of Pentecost,

at last my fast was over.

we fashioned circles of precious metals

and strung them around each other’s

vena amori, declared forever in a vacuum

proclaimed endurance upon the coming

event horizon of time itself.

space swells with the ancient ruins

of men and women who shed tears

tracing the constellation trails

from one end of an ocean to another

filling the void of voiceless oceans

with metaphoric rapture and appetite

for adventure.

Charles, the smell of desert sand swims

firmly between your pores,

your body warm as the land

cut like mountains

between your biceps

where my head lays

basking in the moments

you are here.

how i adore you so.

proclaim eternity

enter matrimony – eyes wide open

place his heart upon a pedestal

let no slanderous word nor malicious canticle

seduce his woefully mortal heart.

roots and petals of calendula

poultice to quell the spasms

you take me in my blood

and i take you in my arms

when the nightmares hurt

worse than the back pain.

you remind me that even in the winter

the carmine-colored cardinal coos

and whistles, awakens the trees and fills

the cold world with sweet song.

i’m unraveled in your high collar,

blue and burned in a freak fire,

raptured by the desert

nothing is forever, we know,

yet everything is possible.

there is no going back.

on this river of time

except maybe we’ll escape

the event horizon burn

as radiation about

the black hole’s radio halo.

dying light is a subjective notion

when you limit every poetic persuasion

to the limits of the human eye.

we weave honey, orange citrus, & marmalade

into spacetime tapestry,

devote each second

as the present is our own reward

the art of being in love,

the pleasure of being alive.

the future is a metaphor –

as in calling the ocean endless

naming riptides undertow

we: new and other molecules

blur into water, two bodies

one brackish soul.

–six pm | *after easter